


Starsong

by HorriblyStupid



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Rockstar AU, but that’s why Marya’s there :), helene needs a hug, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorriblyStupid/pseuds/HorriblyStupid
Summary: Helene Kuragina is a successful singer, beloved by fans all over the world. After an unfortunate incident (which was definitely Anatole’s fault), her father hires a new publicist, Marya. She soon finds that there is much more to Helene than meets the eye.
Relationships: Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina
Comments: 25
Kudos: 28





	1. In which Helene does not need a babysitter

Hélène stood in the 7-Eleven, wearing sunglasses and yoga pants, and trying her best to make the shelf of newspapers in front of her spontaneously combust with her mind. How had they gotten this all so wrong? It just wasn’t fair. 

Her own face stared back at her from the front page of ten different tabloids, rows of the same picture mocking her over and over again. Her expression in said photograph screamed “you really fucked this one up, idiot.”

All she had wanted were some painkillers to fight off the awful headache she had after last night— a night that, to be honest, she hardly remembered. There had been too much vodka, that was for sure. She vaguely recalled Anatole and Fedya annoying her and something about… a bear? 

Shit. 

The headlines all involved such invariably awful bear puns that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Elena’s beary bad night’, ‘Unbearable cruelty: Kuragina’s wild bash EXPOSED’. 

She was going to kill Anatole. 

Her phone buzzed aggressively in her pocket. She knew without looking that it would be Vasily. She was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but knew it wouldn’t be worth the consequences. Swallowing her anxiety, she answered the call. 

“Papa, I—”

“Elena, I trust you’ve seen the papers.” His voice was cold. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was very, very angry. 

“I didn’t do anything, I swear! It wasn’t my idea.” This came out sounding far less assertive than she’d hoped, and more like a plea for mercy.

“I don’t care. Get over here, now.” He hung up the call. 

Shit.

Her father had, predictably, sent a driver to pick her up. Hélène wasn’t going to ask how he knew where she was but she was grateful to have someone waiting outside the shop for her. She was not in the mood to deal with the crowds of paparazzi that had no doubt already gathered outside her apartment. 

After a short, silent drive, they reached the offices of Moscow Records. A couple of cameramen were standing, looking rather cold, outside the entrance. She gave them a quick smile as she passed and was ushered inside by a man she didn’t recognise in an expensive suit. 

Anatole was lounging against the front desk, trying to chat up a clearly uninterested secretary. His hair was perfectly styled, as always, and looking at his bright eyes no one could have guessed he had consumed his own body weight in vodka only the night before. By his feet, curled up against the desk, was Fedya, with his head in his hands. At least one of them was feeling the hangover. 

When her brother noticed her, his face lit up. “Lena! We missed you last night!”

“What did you do?” she hissed. 

He smiled, without a hint of irony. “Just a little prank, dear sister. It’s not like anyone was hurt.”

From under the desk, Fedya gave a sort of half grunt, half moan. Anatole seemed to consider this, then shrugged in agreement. 

“Well, no one was seriously hurt.”

It was taking every inch of self-control in her not to slap him. She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that the last thing she needed was to look like a hysterical diva who couldn’t handle her own brother. 

“We’ll all be seriously hurt by the time Vasily is done with us. I told you not to do anything stupid.”

The breezy smile on his face told her that he had no idea how serious this was. She tried to fix him with her best hard stare, channelling her father. From the way his chest deflated slightly, it was probably working. 

“Better fix your face before you go in to see him, eh?” Ugh, he was right. 

Hélène strode into the bathroom and gripped her hands on the side of a sink to steady herself. Deep breaths, she thought. Looking in the mirror, she sighed. Her hair was all over the place and her face still bore the remnants of last night’s makeup.

She splashed some water over her cheeks and pulled a lipstick out of her bag, hoping to do some damage control. It was an awful shade of pink (labelled peachy kiss in an aggressively curly font) but it would have to do. She smudged some kohl pencil around her eyes, in an attempt to look put together and mysterious, which she suspected ended with her looking a racoon. A mysterious racoon perhaps, but a racoon none the less. Great. 

There was no point trying to quickly comb her hair— she knew it would just result in a frizzy mess— but she could at least try and get it partially under control. She pulled it back into a bun, leaving a few curls to frame her face at the front. As she reached into her handbag to grab a bobby-pin, it slipped over, sending all of its contents crashing into the sink.

She swore, loudly. Of all the days! And any minute she was going to have to put on her calm, ‘everything is fine and I’m definitely not on the edge of a nervous breakdown’ face and look her father in the eye while he yelled at her for whatever bullshit Anatole had pulled this time. 

It wasn’t fair. She let out an exasperated cry and slammed her fists down on the table. Banging her head against the wall suddenly seemed tempting, as she tried to gather her belongings, now wet, from the sink, muttering expletives under her breath. Stupid Anatole just had to go and hire a stupid bear from the stupid zoo even though she told him it was a bad idea and now her stupid—

“Everything ok?”

She spun around to see a woman, taller than her with beautiful red hair and a stern, judgemental expression on her face. Who was she?

It didn’t matter, she decided after a split second. She had already had enough judgement for a lifetime. She just laughed flatly, grabbed her handbag and walked out. 

She realised on her way to the door that she had left her lipstick by the tap, but didn’t go back for it. She wasn’t going to ruin her dramatic exit for peachy fucking kiss.

“Nice of you to join us, Elena.” There was that trademark Kuragin family affection. Vasily sat in his office, face unreadable as always.

Hélène had loved the office when she was younger. She and Anatole would play hide and seek underneath the table and behind the bookshelves. With the large glass walls and the best view in the whole city, it had seemed like something out of a fairy-tale. Now, she dreading being called in to see her father. 

Still, she kept her face neutral and forced herself to relax her shoulders. She didn’t want to look nervous. She couldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

“You wanted to see me?”

“Do you remember Rebecca Dauphine?” he asked, pale eyes watching her face for any signs of guilt. 

She shrugged, noncommittally. Rebecca… that was the actress that Anatole had dated for about five minutes the year before. Hélène couldn’t remember much about her, except that she had lovely hair and about as much personality as a slab of concrete. 

“Last night, your brother sent a rather unpleasant surprise to her house in a taxi. Needless to say, she was unimpressed.” 

The bear. Oh Anatole, you moron. 

Her realisation must have shown on her face, and Vasily pounced. 

“You knew about this. I don’t ask you for much Elena, but you know I have certain expectations. And frankly, I can’t believe you would be so irresponsible.”

“Papa, I told him it was a bad idea. He said he would leave it and I had a terrible headache, so I went home. I didn’t think he would actually do it.” She smiled, equal parts apologetic and angelic. 

“You should have known better. It’s not his reputation which is being smeared all over the tabloids, is it? I have spent too much time and money building your career to watch it slip away just because you can’t control yourself!”

“I didn’t do anything!” she shouted, overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. She regretted it instantly, as the anger fell from her father’s face and was replaced by an expression of unreadable coldness. 

“Not this time, perhaps. But I haven’t forgotten that incident with Boris, or that little joke you played on those reporters. Not to mention the fact that you still haven’t finished the damn album and it’s been nearly a year now.” His lips curled up at the edges, in what she guessed was meant to be a smile. 

“But, I am nothing if not forgiving, so I have decided to give you another chance. This time, however, it will be on my terms.” 

He turned on the intercom and barked an order at his secretary. After a second, a woman entered the office. A tall woman, with red hair. The woman from the bathroom. 

Looking at her more closely, Hélène saw she was young, probably around the same age as her, and wearing an austere dark grey suit. She was about the furthest thing possible from the friends she chose to keep. 

“Elena, this is Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova. She did wonderful things for Bezukhov’s image, and I have instructed her to keep an eye on you until I am satisfied that you have learnt how to behave. You will treat her kindly, or I will have to take more serious measures. Do you understand?”

That bastard. The last thing she needed was a babysitter, and anyone who was a friend of Pierre’s was an enemy of hers. Still, she smiled sweetly. 

“Of course, Papa.” 

This was a terrible idea. Of course, Marya had known that from the minute she heard it, but Vasily Kuragin was a very persuasive man with more than enough influence to make her life miserable if she said no. 

After all, he had said, it was simple enough. Keep an eye on his daughter for a few months, just until she gets her act together, and then get the biggest payday of her life. What could go wrong?

Except his daughter was Elena Kuragina, whose last album sold over a million copies, the darling of the indie scene, adored and revered by fans all over the world. She had quite the reputation, and Marya had heard an endless stream of gossip about her; one day she was a manipulative slut, the next a princess with a heart of gold. 

Still, she reminded herself, she was the best in the business. If she could somehow convince teenaged girls that Pierre Bezukhov was a heartthrob (she still didn’t quite know how she had managed that), then she could make Elena look like a good person until her next album came out.

Marya had been surprised when she bumped into her in the bathroom, but she had felt oddly reassured, seeing the woman who was so admired for her elegance and grace looking exhausted and upset. It was somehow nice to know that she was just another person, underneath all of the glamour and fame. 

So, when she walked into Mr Kuragin’s office, she almost did a double take. The Elena standing there was unrecognisable as the flustered, cursing girl she had seen earlier. She was standing tall, with an easy smile even as her father reprimanded her. Every inch of her screamed in-control. She seemed almost bored by the whole situation. 

She was certainly attractive, but Marya knew that already; it was like no one could talk about her without using the word beautiful at least a couple of times. Still, seeing her in person she was struck by her commanding presence. There was an almost magnetic force around her that made Marya want to get a little bit closer. Suddenly she understood how the woman could sell out stadiums, why fans lined up just to get her picture. 

But she had sent a bear in a taxi to the house of an actress. If that didn’t scream entitled rich kid behaviour, she wasn’t sure what did. Granted, she had seen the last film said actress had been in (an action movie in which she played a sexy alien), and decided she deserved whatever was coming to her. The bear, however, definitely did not. 

“I’m Hélène. Pleasure to meet you.” She was surprisingly soft-spoken, compared to the power of her singing voice. She extended a well-manicured hand, which Marya dutifully shook. Her fingers were cold as stone.

Hélène looked her up and down, then smiled. Something in her expression sent a shiver down Marya’s spine. 

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Marya.”


	2. In which Marya does not have time for this

Marya sat in silence in the back of the car, occasionally glancing over at Hélène. She seemed lost in thought, staring out of the window with wide eyes. 

In a futile attempt to ease her discomfort, Marya pulled her phone out of her bag. Seven notifications: a missed call and a string of texts from Natasha.

Natalya Rostova, 10.35:  
how’s your first day going  
how’s elena?  
can i meet her  
pleassssseeee  
tell her I love her music  
sonya says tell her to hurry up with the new album already

Marya smiled. At least someone was excited about her new job. 

“What is it?” 

She jumped slightly, not expecting Hélène to have noticed her amusement. “Just some messages from my goddaughter,” she said, trying to sound casual. “She’s very excited about all of this.”

“And are you?” Hélène looked Marya over intently, like a scientist trying to classify a new specimen. “Excited to be working for me, I mean. Or did Vasily simply make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“It’s a good job. I’d be a fool to say no.”

Hélène laughed at that, though Marya wasn’t sure what was funny. 

“It’s no job at all. I’m not Pierre— I don’t need someone to hold my hand and tell me what to say. So, when we get to my apartment, you can go do whatever it is you would be doing, I’ll tell my father you were with me and we won’t have a problem.”

Marya couldn’t believe the nerve of this girl! Who did she think she was, telling her how to do her job? She should have known Hélène would be the type to think she could get out of anything, that the rules didn’t apply to her.

“That’s nice, but you aren’t my boss. Mr Kuragin is, and I’m going to stay with you like he told me to.” She gave her a cold look for extra effect. 

Hélène didn’t seem particularly surprised by her answer, nor did she look intimidated. She merely shrugged in response. This was odd. People had always been intimidated by Marya, and she took great pride in it. Annoyance began to rise in her chest.

“Besides, if it weren’t for your actions, I wouldn’t need to be here in the first place.”

She had expected her to look hurt by this, wanted the woman to know that she wouldn’t be pushed around and that she would do her job, no matter what. 

But Hélène merely smiled. Marya was reminded of a crocodile, baring its teeth. 

“Oh Marya, this is going to be so much worse for you than it is for me.”

What had she gotten herself into?

After what seemed like an eternity, the car finally pulled up to Hélène’s apartment. She thanked the driver (who had a madness in his eyes that was deeply unnerving), and gestured for Marya to follow her. 

She started walking at a brisk pace leaving Marya behind her, who struggled to catch up without breaking into a jog. The biting cold shocked her, a stark contrast to the warmth of the car, and she pulled her coat tighter around her. 

“What are we doing here, Hélène?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have some breakfast and then get some work done.”

They entered the building, and any comeback Marya was formulating was instantly forgotten. 

It was grand beyond anything she had ever seen, with thick carpets and doormen in immaculate uniforms. The whole place smelt of warm spices and there were fresh flowers on display in expensive-looking vases. 

Hélène instantly noticed Marya’s entrancement. Marya was beginning to realise quite how easily the singer read her expressions. 

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Marya simply nodded. Her suit felt very cheap and her shoes very worn. 

Unsurprisingly, Hélène’s apartment, at the top of the building, was just as beautiful and lavish. It was large and open-plan, with dark grey walls and stylish minimalist furnishings. Looking around, Marya felt as if she had wandered onto the set of a movie, but not just because of the interior décor. There was little about the apartment to suggest that anyone actually lived there. Everything was perfectly in place, lined up and polished. Apart from a few photos on the wall, it could have been a show-home. 

Hélène kicked off her shoes and dropped her handbag on the countertop. She shrugged her shoulders back and took a deep breath in. For a moment, she stood silently, staring at the wall. 

Marya suddenly felt as though she was intruding on something private, watching the other woman in a moment of reflection. She wandered over to the wall that was hung with carefully curated picture frames, treading lightly as if trying not to disturb a wild animal. 

Most of the photos on display featured her with a blond-haired boy that Marya recognised as her brother Anatole. There was one of them at an award ceremony, laughing so heartily that she could almost feel their joy through the camera lens. In another, both of them were clinging onto a man with dark hair and a scowl, identical bright smiles on their faces. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

Hélène’s voice startled her out of her thoughts. She declined politely and watched as she walked to the fridge. It was almost empty, Marya noticed, except for a few jars and paper takeout containers. She pulled out a plastic water bottle and poured herself a glass.

From the way that she winced as she swallowed the clear liquid, Marya was sure it wasn’t water. She opened her mouth to protest. It was barely noon for goodness’ sake, and if she was to be a good influence, day drinking was probably an ideal place to start. 

But Hélène looked at her, with a clear challenge in her eyes and though all the words between them went unsaid, Marya understood that any criticism of her choice of breakfast was not welcome. 

When she didn’t comment, Hélène seemed pleased, as if she had passed a test, and smiled at her with a renewed warmth. 

“So, Marya, tell me about yourself. What’s a beautiful woman like you doing working for Bezukhov of all people?”

Did it really only take a sip of alcohol to change her mood so much? Marya didn’t understand how just a moment ago she had been verging on hostile, and now she seemed to be… flirting? The inconsistency made her suspicious, and when she answered it was with a carefully impartial answer. 

“Pierre was having some problems with his image, so he hired me as his publicist. I simply helped the public see more of his better qualities.”

“Are you my publicist then, Marya?” Something in the way she said her name felt wrong. It slid off her tongue as if they were best friends, with the false familiarity of a siren’s song. 

“I don’t know.” She had to break eye contact then, suddenly feeling hot under the woman’s intense gaze.

Hélène didn’t seem to mind. She turned to take her glass, now empty, to the sink. 

“Anyway, the man’s a pathetic drunk who wouldn’t know good music if it punched him in the face, so what you did for him was truly impressive. Personally, I would have let him go back to whatever cave he crawled out of. I’m sure irrelevance would suit him just fine.”

“I wanted to help him. We’ve been close friends since college, after all,” said Marya, irritation seeping into her voice. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Hélène’s eyebrows furrowed together in what looked almost like genuine remorse. “That must be very difficult for you.”

How dare she! A hundred names and insults sprang into Marya’s head, but before she had the chance to use any of them the door swung open. Two men walked in— or rather, one walked, one strutted. 

She recognised them both. The taller, paler one was Anatole Kuragin, who had quite the reputation, and the other appeared to be the scowling man from the photo on the wall. 

They didn’t seem to notice her, as Anatole swanned over to his sister and planted a kiss on her cheek. She pushed him away. 

“I’m still mad at you,” she said, pouting slightly. 

“Was he really angry?” he asked, something dark passing over his face for a second. 

Hélène simply looked at him, and he nodded. Marya realised she had missed something; it was as if they had had a whole conversation without saying a word.

“Boys, this is Marya. Vasily has decided I need someone to keep me out of trouble, so here she is. Marya, this is my idiot brother, Anatole, and this is our friend Dolokhov.”

“Enchanté,” said Anatole, voice low and practically dripping with allure. The intended sultriness of his greeting was somewhat ruined, Marya thought, by the fact that his French accent was atrocious.

Hélène just rolled her eyes. “Don’t even try it. She’s much too sensible for you.” She said this with such a tone that it was insulting to both Marya and Anatole at once; even Dolokhov looked vaguely hurt on their behalf. 

“Someone’s in a bad mood today,” sniped Anatole. 

“And whose fault is that?” replied Hélène. Marya had heard a lot about how close the siblings were, and indeed there was something in their childish bickering that told her Hélène knew her brother as well as she knew herself. 

“I know just the thing to make you feel better,” Anatole said, settling himself on the sofa and propping his feet up on the very expensive coffee table. “Julie is throwing a little party tonight— nothing that exciting but it will be fun.” He lowered his voice and leaned in, conspiratorially. “I think Boris will be there.”

Hélène scoffed at this, while Dolokhov tried (unsuccessfully) to contain a snort of laughter. 

“You know I wouldn’t go for Boris if he was the last man left on Earth.” 

Marya was definitely missing something here. She didn’t know who this Boris person was, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were not particularly fond of him. 

“Don’t let him hear you say that, or he’ll tell his mommy!” Dolokhov said, in sing-song mockery. 

Marya finally asked who Boris was, and immediately felt three pairs of eyes regarding her as if she were from a different planet.

“Boris Drubetskoy. He plays bass for the Footsoldiers. Have you really never heard of them?” asked Hélène, at the blank look on Marya’s face. “Probably for the best. Their music’s shit, anyway.”

There was a moment of silence, as all three of them stewed in their dislike of the man. Hélène sighed dramatically.

“But I’m not going to some party, especially not Julie’s. I have work to do.”

The boys protested loudly, clearly unimpressed by her attempts to be a functioning adult. 

“Work? Please. You haven’t finished the song in four months and you really think tonight will be the night?” Dolokhov clearly regretted this as soon as he said it, as Hélène shot him a look so threatening that the tips of his ears blushed slightly pink. 

Anatole tried a different approach. “Sister, you need to relax. You’ve been working too hard, and really, how can you finish your song if you don’t take care of yourself?

“You know, most people’s idea of taking care of yourself involves a hot bath or maybe eating a vegetable, not getting drunk with people you don’t even like.”

They seemed to accept this as the end of the conversation, with only a few muttered insults about how boring she was. Anatole turned on the television and Dolokhov flung himself down next to him, so close that he was almost in the other boy’s lap. Hélène perched on the arm of the sofa, staring at her phone.

It was clear that working with the singer was going to be nothing like Marya had been expected. For starters, Hélène was meant to be a regular fixture at parties so wild that most people would have given an arm or a leg for an invite. And yet, she seemed more restrained and composed than any musician she had ever worked with. 

This played on her mind, the strange divide between the Hélène of public image and the woman in front of her. In her line of work, she had often been praised for her ability to quickly get an idea of someone’s true character. Most of the time, she could tell what other people were thinking just from the look on their faces. And yet, Hélène was a mystery to her. 

This bothered her more than it should have. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being played in some way. Hélène would probably be laughing and mocking her the moment she turned her back. Marya knew she was used to getting her own way, thought gaining people’s love and affection was as easy as flashing them a smile. 

And perhaps it was, for other people. But Marya was no fool, and she wasn’t about to fall for some girl’s cheap tricks just because she could sing and was pretty. Really, really pretty. Between Hélène’s insults to Pierre, and the way she had tried to get rid of her at the first chance, Marya had made up her mind. She did not like Hélène, and no sweet smiles or flirting were going to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments/kudos always very much appreciated :)


	3. In which Helene is going to drive Marya crazy

One thing Marya quickly learnt as Hélène’s publicist was how much people loved her. Vasily forwarded her dozens of requests for interviews and public appearances every day. Magazines wanted pictures, charities wanted her support, brands wanted her endorsement. It was relentless. 

She had thought Pierre was in the spotlight, but with Hélène it was ten times worse. The woman was a proper star, and the fascination around her went deeper than she could ever have imagined. 

When she posted a candid photo of her lying with a hand casually resting on her stomach, it took Buzzfeed less than an hour to write an article speculating that she was pregnant. She mentioned in an interview that she liked otters (which Marya was fairly sure was a lie) and the next day three separate companies had sent her otter-themed clothes. Marya had given most of them to Natasha; Hélène certainly wasn’t going to wear a t-shirt that said ‘I otterly love you’.

Still, it would take more than overzealous fans to defeat Marya, and she quickly came up with an extensive and thorough plan to keep Hélène in the public’s good books. 

A journalist had contacted her, looking to write an in-depth article before the release of the new album. However, before he would actually commit to an interview, he wanted her to answer, in writing, a list of questions about herself to help him, and presumably his readers, get to know her. 

Marya thought this sounded like pretentious nonsense, but it occurred to her that if Hélène only had to fill in the answers to the questions, it would be much easier to ensure her responses were appropriate. 

(She could already hear Hélène calling her a control-freak, but she wouldn’t apologise for wanting things done properly.)

They were sat in an empty conference room at Moscow Records, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls and bright white lights overhead. Marya wondered why Mr Kuragin would ever have approved the design. There was something soulless about the place, a bleak emptiness. Then again, he probably fit right in. 

“Why are we doing this? It’s such a waste of time.” Hélène was perfectly dressed, as Marya had come to expect. Not a curl out of place, no cracks in her carefully fashioned armour. She wore a silk shirt and a half-formed smile that did nothing to hide her impatience. 

“I’m telling you, this journalist is a big deal. His pieces always get loads of attention— it will be a good thing for you.”

Hélène sighed, but nodded in reluctant agreement. Marya began to read the questions out, scribbling down her responses. 

“What trait do you dislike most in other people?”

Hélène, across the table from her, leant back with her arms crossed. 

“Asking stupid questions.”

“You can’t say that. I don’t think that’s a personality trait, anyway.”

Hélène rolled her eyes. “You were the one who told me to be honest. How about nosiness? Or trying to control other people’s business?”

“I’m putting down close-mindedness,” she said, reaching for a pen. Hélène wrinkled her nose, clearly unimpressed with the answer.

“You’re so bossy. Ooh, that’s a good one. Put bossiness.”

Marya clenched her jaw, irritation building with each quip from the singer. She was used to being respected. This felt like working with a petulant toddler.

She took a deep breath; losing her temper would only give Hélène more reason to act out against her. 

“What trait do you most dislike in yourself?” 

Hélène pursed her lips together in thought for a second, then shrugged. “Nothing. I’m perfect.”

Marya raised an eyebrow at that. “Stubborn, rude, arrogant, impulsive, inconsiderate, manipulative, take your pick.”

“You flatter me, Marya. Are you this mean to your boyfriend?” She smiled suggestively. “Or girlfriend?”

“I really don’t see how that’s relevant,” she said, through gritted teeth.

Hélène nodded, knowingly. “Ah, single then. Couldn’t possibly think why.”

Deep breaths, Marya reminded herself. “Could you please take this seriously for one second?” she snapped. 

Hélène, to her credit, had the decency to look slightly remorseful, though she muttered something under her breath that was definitely not complimentary. She sat up straight and leant forwards, both hands flat against the table.

“Okay. Seriously, I think my worst trait is probably… I can forget to think about other people. Their feelings, I mean.” She looked down at the table, and Marya wondered if it was the first time she’d told anyone that. 

“Great. Do you have anything I can put that doesn’t make you sound like a psychopath?” 

Hurt flickered across her face for a second, and Marya felt a twinge of guilt in her chest. 

“We can come back to that one, if you want,” she said, a gentle peace offering. Hélène nodded. She read down to the next line on the page and exhaled sharply at the oddly intrusive question. 

“What was the best kiss of your life?” 

If Hélène was fazed by the question, she didn’t show it. She shrugged indifferently. “I like to think I haven’t had it yet.”

Marya smiled, satisfied with the answer, and scribbled it down on the paper. Outside, the clouds parted, bathing the room in golden sunshine. Hélène leant back, eyes closed, basking in the warmth. The light danced over her hair, bringing out the deep coppery tones and irradiating the stray strands around her face like a small halo. Maybe the glass walls weren’t so bad after all. 

“Who are you closest to?”

Hélène didn’t open her eyes, still relishing the moment of sunlight. “My brother. Brothers, you should probably put. Don’t want them to think I’m playing favourites.”

Marya paused at this, and looked up with her head cocked in confusion. 

“You have another brother?”

Hélène sat up and gave her a judgemental look, as if marvelling at her complete obliviousness. “Hippolyte,” she said, answering Marya’s questions before they left her mouth, “was not made for the spotlight. He just isn’t charming. Or pretty. Or interesting.” She smiled. “Not like me.”

It was Marya’s turn to roll her eyes. She started to ask another question, but was interrupted. 

“This isn’t fair. I should get to ask you questions too, you know.” Hélène had a glint in her eye that made Marya nervous. 

“That really isn’t the point of this,” she tried to reason, but the other woman wasn’t listening.

“Who are you closest too, Marya?” She was clearly enjoying this, watching Marya expectantly, with a half-smile on her face.

“I though you said you hated nosiness.”

“In other people. Now answer the question.” Hélène’s eyes never left hers. 

Marya sighed, resigned to her fate. “I suppose my goddaughter, Natasha. She lives with me— her cousin, as well— during the school term, because her parents live out in the country. She’s a really sweet girl. Always sees the best in everyone.”

Hélène smiled widely, looking triumphant. “The terrible dragon does have a heart after all. Who’d have thought it?”

“Shut up,” Marya grumbled.

Hélène laughed, so deeply and loudly that it was infectious; Marya felt a smile break across her face. She was different, somehow, unrestrained in a way that Marya had never seen.

Then everything shifted. Every muscle in Hélène’s body tightened, like a puppet suddenly pulled up at the strings. The smile melted into an expression of measured blankness as she stared behind Marya. 

She turned her head to see the cause of this transformation, and was not surprised to meet Mr Kuragin. The same sunlight that had so brightened Hélène’s beauty made his pale skin look almost translucent. As his long, blond eyelashes caught the light, Marya was reminded of the antennae of a thousand scurrying insects. 

“Elena, a word please.” His deep voice set Marya’s hair on end. She nodded solemnly, and followed him out of the room without a word. 

Marya was left alone, wondering why she already missed the sound of Hélène’s laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I had a lot of fun with this one :) sorry it’s short but the next chapter is extra juicy I promise!


	4. In which Hélène is singing lalalalalalala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: in which I may have lost control of the plot and when did this become a Hadestown AU anyway?

In the week that she had been working with Marya, Hélène had tried to avoid her as much as possible. It wasn’t that she had anything against the woman as such— she almost respected her no-nonsense attitude and sharp wit— but she was pretty sure Marya didn’t like her.

That was fine. She wasn’t looking for a friend and over the years she had grown used to being alone. Marya had written her off as shallow and vapid, just because she took pride in her appearance, as heartless because she didn’t like the entire world knowing how she felt. She wasn’t the first person to do so, and she wouldn’t be the last.

She was a strange presence around the office and the studio, always there, always watching, but rarely interacting. Hélène knew little about her and that was fine by her. She had heard that Pierre’s other staff had called her the ‘dreaded dragon’. She could see the resemblance.

But she had better things to do than to waste time on Marya. She had a song to write.

It was going to be her finest work, and, in her head, it was already one of the best things she had ever done. But every time she tried to get it down on paper, or even just to sing it aloud, it wouldn’t come.

She had been struggling with it for months now, fighting with each chord and every note. Whenever she thought she had finally finished a verse, or even written one satisfactory line, she would have a new burst of inspiration and start all over again. But it didn’t matter, because no matter how many times she wrote it, it was missing something.

A few days before, while she was going through an interview with Marya, Vasily had taken her aside and told her in no uncertain terms that she needed to finish the album soon. He hadn’t specified what would happen if she didn’t, but he didn’t need to. There would be consequences. There were always consequences.

Anatole suggested that she get a ghost writer, or just scrap the song all together. After all, this song excluded, the album was nearly ready, and everyone else was keen for her to get it out into the world as soon as possible.

But she couldn’t do it. She tried not to put so much pressure on herself; logically, she knew that it wasn’t as if the moment she finished it, the sun would shine and the flowers would bloom. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that this was her purpose. She was meant to write this song. So why couldn’t she do it?

She had gotten into the habit of locking herself away in the studio and playing the same lines over and over again, until her voice cracked and her fingers hurt. On that particular day, she had already been sat at the piano for hours, and the sun had long since set. Everyone else had probably gone home, she thought, looking out at the dark corridor behind her.

She played a chord progression that sounded good and scribbled it down. But when she played it again and tried to put words to it, it didn’t feel right.

About to give up, exhausted by all of the melodies that fluttered around inside her head, she heard a voice behind her.

“That’s really beautiful.” Marya was almost whispering, her normally booming voice softened so as not to disturb her concentration.

“It’s not finished,” Hélène told her, hoping she would get the message and leave her in peace.

There was a strange look on the other woman’s face. It almost reminded Hélène of how her mother used to look at her when she first started learning the piano, as if the music enthralled and scared her in equal measure.

“How long have you been here? I didn’t see you come in,” Marya asked. She shrugged in response, not wanting to reveal how hard she had been working.

“Have you eaten anything today?” At the look on her face, Marya sighed. “You should take a break. Go home, get some rest.”

Hélène bristled in indignation. She didn’t need this woman’s worry. “I can take care of myself,” she snapped.

Marya didn’t respond to that, though she stood her ground, straightening her back and taking a deep breath.

“Can you play it again?”

No one else had heard the song yet. She had been convinced that if she let anyone listen to it, the magic would be broken and the song tainted by expectation. But something in Marya’s expression reassured her, and without thinking about it she let her fingers dance across the keys, singing along to the wordless melody.

When she finished, she turned around, looking for some reaction from the red-head. Marya just stared at her, face unreadable. For a moment, Hélène thought she had made a mistake to trust her with the music, readying herself for a cutting remark or harsh put-down.

Instead, Marya’s face slowly split into a wide grin, sheer delight written all over her features. She hadn’t noticed her smile before. It was a lovely sight.

“How… where did that come from?”

Hélène shrugged, unused to such sincerity and unsure how to react.

“It’s just something I’ve been working on. I can’t quite— whatever I do, it’s not finished.”

Marya took a slow step towards her, and gestured at the piano. “Can I?”

Nodding, Hélène slid over slightly on the piano stool, and Marya sat down next to her. She was so close that their sides were just touching, and Hélène’s breath hitched in her throat. She almost wanted to reach out and run her fingers over Marya’s pale cheek. Focus, Kuragina, she thought, and stared determinedly at her knees, trying to relax despite the tension that seized her.

Marya didn’t seem to notice how close they suddenly were, nor did she notice Hélène’s discomfort. She was biting her lip in concentration as she leant forwards over the piano, and started to play.

Her fingers moved jerkily, and it sounded as if she were attacking each note in turn, but it was still recognisable as one of the phrases from her song. She played it once, twice, and Hélène could practically see the gears turning in her head as she went over the notes. The third time she played it, where the phrase had previously gotten lower, sadder, she took it up, soaring over the high notes. It fit perfectly, changing the tone of the song while somehow enhancing its essence.

“That’s amazing,” Hélène said loudly, heart pumping with the adrenaline of a breakthrough, an unexpected moment of brilliance. “How did you do that?”

She turned her head to look at Marya, her unlikely hero, and found their faces barely a few inches apart.

All she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears as she gazed at her. They had never been so near before. She could smell her perfume and see all of the different shades of blue in her eyes. Looking into her eyes, her pupils wide, Hélène could feel any control she had over the situation slipping away. For once, she didn’t mind.

They were frozen in place, afraid to move away or break eye contact, barely daring even to breathe. Hélène’s eyes darted down to the soft curve of Marya’s lips and instinctively she leant forwards, until their noses were nearly touching.

A single dark curl fell in front of her face and Marya tentatively reached up to brush it behind her ear. Her hand lingered, almost cupping her cheek, and Hélène could feel a myriad of emotions in the action: trust, hesitation, longing. There was nothing between them except endless possibility. She wanted to stay like this, wished everything else would just disappear.

It couldn’t last. Marya inhaled sharply and jerked away, practically jumping up from the stool. She didn’t meet Hélène’s eyes as she mumbled an apology and left in a hurry, trying to regain her composure as she fled the room.

Alone again, Hélène let her head slump forwards onto the piano keys. In her confusion, lost in a newfound desire, she barely heard the discordant crush of notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


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